


years gone by

by mornings



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Childhood Friends, Friends With Benefits, M/M, POV Miya Atsumu, art student tobio, atsumu gives and loves, engineering student atsumu, with a little twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornings/pseuds/mornings
Summary: How Atsumu sees Tobio through the years.(or five times atsumu gave something to tobio and the one time tobio gave something to him)
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 22
Kudos: 254





	years gone by

**Author's Note:**

> content warning:  
> > alcohol consumption (2)  
> > mentioned underage drinking (2)  
> > explicit sexual content (3)  
> 

_ You’re the only person I’ve ever met  _

_ who seems to have the faintest conception _

_ of what I mean when I say a thing. _

_ — Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out _

**1.**

**[ 2009 ]**

“How long are we gonna stand here?”

_ Here  _ is in front of a shelf containing an assortment of flat brushes on the third floor of Sekaido, fourteen minutes away from their house in Omotesandō.

“As long as we need to,” Atsumu says, his eyes still fixed on the brushes in front of him. He lowers his head to take a better look at a certain brush, scrutinizing its every detail: bristles, metal band, handle, brand, price, and color. 

Atsumu sighs in disappointment.  _ Not this one either.  _ He shifts his gaze towards the brush on the left. 

“What’s wrong with this one?” Osamu asks, holding out the brush he was previously looking at.

“There’s a paint chip at the bottom,” Atsumu replies plainly.

“That’s it?” 

Atsumu pauses. He turns to look at his twin with furrowed brows. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“I mean it’s not even that obvious,” Osamu starts, “and I think this brush is good already.”

“I don’t want a  _ good  _ brush. I want the  _ best  _ brush,” Atsumu says, raising a brow at Osamu. “You know this is for Tobio-kun right?”

Osamu levels him with a blank face. “I doubt he would even notice.”

“He absolutely would. You know him.”

“So you’re going to examine every single brush on this shelf?”

“So what if I do?”

Osamu lets out an exasperated sigh because he knows he can’t win against his brother with this one. “Whatever.”

And so Atsumu continues to inspect the flat brushes on the shelf. It goes on for about fifteen minutes, Osamu complaining beside him, until he finally finds the one he was looking for: a Da Vinci Top Acryl synthetic brush. 

“Finally,” Osamu says when Atsumu adds the brush to his shopping basket.

Atsumu stares at him. “You’re aware I still need to pick a fan brush and a calligraphy one right?”

Osamu only whines in protest.

  
  
  
  


Atsumu’s hands are shaking from where it rests with a box of brushes on his back. Whether it’s from the cold winter wind or from nervousness, he’s not sure. 

He has visited Takedajō-seki with Osamu a few times before but this is the first time he has set foot on the castle ruins in an early December morning with Tobio and Aran. Up here, the city is merely an illusion under the sea of clouds that holds the fortress afloat. Atsumu momentarily wonders if the cotton clouds would envelop him in a hug if he leaped right into it.

“When will you give your gift to him?” 

Atsumu peels his eyes away from the clouds to look at Aran. “I don’t know.”

“You should probably give it to him now,” Aran suggests. He points his finger toward the spot where Tobio is seated a few feet from Osamu.

“I’m kinda nervous,” he admits. “I don’t even know why.”

Aran lightly pats him on the back. “He’s our best friend, you don’t have to be nervous,” he says with a warm smile. “Just do it.”

“Okay.”

Atsumu takes a deep breath, another one just for good measure, then he starts to walk towards Tobio.

He watches the snow scrunch under his shoes, and counts the little footprints he left along the way. It takes twenty-nine footsteps before he reaches Tobio.

Another deep breath, then he says, “Here.”

Atsumu hands out the red box to Tobio, looking everywhere but his blue eyes.

“Happy birthday.”

“‘Tsumu,” Tobio says quietly. “Thank you.”

Atsumu nods and sits beside him. “Open it.”

_ Good job at keeping it cool, ‘Tsumu. _

He watches with bated breath as Tobio leisurely opens the box. His eyes go wide the very moment he sees the brushes inside, and when he picks them up he gives Atsumu the biggest smile.

“Thank you,” Tobio whispers against the winter wind, holding Atsumu’s gift to his chest. 

“No problem,” Atsumu replies, feigning nonchalance. He can feel heat creeping up his cheeks but if anyone asks about it, at least he can say it’s because of the cold.

“Seriously, thank you.” Tobio strokes one of the brushes on his palm. “I’m gonna keep this forever.”

“I—um—I don’t,” Atsumu says, stumbling on the words. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Tobio lets out a little laugh, the soft sound going straight to Atsumu’s poor little heart. “Watch me.”

  
  
  
  
  


When Atsumu goes to sleep that night, he dreams of two little boys bouncing on top of the clouds, Takedajō-seki their only audience. The castle ruins speak to them, its voice coming straight from the earth:  _ are you enjoying it, little ones? _

_ Yes!  _ They shout in unison. The two of them continue to jump, leaping from one cloud to another, until Atsumu’s legs get tired so he plops down on the cotton. The other boy doesn’t stop jumping though, and Atsumu stares at his excited little smile. 

_ Atsumu,  _ the ruins rumble.  _ You’re going to watch him forever, won’t you?  _

  
  
  
  
  


**2.**

**[ 2015 ]**

It’s during an evening train ride that Atsumu thinks about it for the first time.

Tokai Daigaku is only eighteen minutes away from Omotesandō, just a blip in the immense flow of time, but it’s during these few minutes that he’s hit with a sudden realization about the blue-eyed boy he grew up with. He was reciting physics formulas in his head, drifting from torque to impulse to kinetic energy, when Tobio’s frowning face flashes through his mind. 

Atsumu’s train of thought falters. He turns to look at Aran seated beside him. 

“Aran-kun.”

Aran, who was typing on his phone, stops and looks at him. “What?”

“Don’t you think Tobio has changed?” 

Aran tilts his head to the side. “Changed?”

“He’s not a baby face anymore,” Atsumu says, his lips drawn in a pout. It’s not what he wanted to say but he lets it hang in the air as he waits for Aran’s reaction.

As expected, Aran barks out a laugh, his amusement clearly shown in his face. “Of course,” he begins, “he can’t stay looking like a baby forever.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Atsumu scoffs. “I feel like there’s something different about him.”

Aran pauses. “He has always looked like that,” he says, his eyes piercing through Atsumu. “Maybe what’s changed is the way you see him.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “This shouldn’t be difficult for you to figure out. You’re an engineering student.”

  
  
  
  
  


The thing about taking up engineering is that he looks at the world through premade lenses. He does not have to look for different pieces and assemble a whole new universe out of it. He does not have to change his glasses in order to view what’s in front of him at a different angle. The curtain is blue, and it will forever stay blue.

But as he scans through his programming notes, he can’t help but think that the blue he was so accustomed with is not the same blue as it was before.

  
  
  
  
  


There is a discolored photograph at the back of Atsumu’s chemistry book. It’s a picture of him and Tobio when they were younger, the both of them sporting bowl cuts and big jerseys and even bigger smiles. He has it there because it’s the only thing that keeps him going whenever he wants to bury himself over Chatelier’s principle. 

_ “You’re going to be a pilot someday, ‘Tsumu.” _

_ “Of course!” Atsumu declared. “And you’re going to be a really successful artist someday, Tobio.” _

_ Tobio stared at him, all round eyes and pouty lips. He held out his pinky finger and said, “Promise?” _

_ Atsumu blinks. He did not know what the promise was for but he laced his pinky finger with Tobio's nonetheless. “Promise.” _

He stares at nine year old Tobio, then rests his gaze at the eighteen year old Tobio seated in front of him. Gone are the plump cheeks and big eyes of a child, replaced by the chiseled jaw and sharp eyes of a teenage boy. 

This is the same boy who danced in the rain with him; the water streaming down their faces like strings of crystals. This is the same boy who played in the mud with him; their clothes stained with brown and a myriad of memories. But then— 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Tobio asks, placing the art book he was reading down on the table.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You look weird.”

Atsumu huffs. “Rude.”

“I mean,” Tobio begins, crossing his arms together, “you look like you want to ask me something.”

“No, I don’t,” Atsumu answers a little too quickly. Tobio furrows his brows but he says nothing. He just shrugs his shoulders, then he goes back to reading.

There  _ is  _ a question—one that has been waiting at the back of his throat for quite some time now—and if he says it out loud the words would probably float among the dust particles in the afternoon sun.

He wants to ask:  _ since when did you grow up so well? _

  
  
  
  
  


Aran was right. 

Tobio always looked like that. He grew up, inevitably so, but he was always a boy of innocent glares and awkward smiles. 

Perhaps the question is:  _ since when did I look at you like this? _

  
  
  
  


“Are we seriously doing this again?” 

“Yes,” Atsumu says as he studies the water color palette he’s holding. The paper wrapped around the white box states that it’s made by Royal Talens. “Stop complaining every time we’re here.”

Osamu heaves out a heavy sigh. They’re in Sekaido again, surrounded by paints that only remind him of one person. If the shelves could talk, they would probably speak to him in the voice of a childhood friend.

“Why are you buying paints for him though?”

Atsumu squints his eyes as he reads the label written at the back. “Because he’s starting art school soon.”

“Oh. I almost forgot he’s graduating high school,” Osamu mumbles. “He’s gonna go to Tamabi right?”

Atsumu nods his head. He continues to study the palette in his hand, contemplating on whether he should get it or not. He may not be an artist but growing up beside one taught him all that he needs to check in order to know if an art supply is worth buying.

Eventually, Atsumu decides to buy it. He read reviews about this product beforehand and it seems like the twelve colors are worth the price.

“You know,” Osamu begins as they line up to pay for the palette, “you do a lot for Tobio.”

Atsumu’s brows draw together. “Huh?”

“I mean, we’ve been here in Sekaido countless times already and it’s mostly because you want to give something to him,” Osamu says. “It’s like you’d do everything for him.”

“I would do the same for you and Aran—” 

“It’s different,” he points out. “It’s just, I dunno, I feel like a single phone call from Tobio and you’d drop whatever you’re doing to go to him. No matter when or where you are.”

Atsumu stops, a thousand thoughts crossing his mind. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“Is it?”

_ No,  _ Atsumu thinks.  _ It isn’t. _

  
  
  
  
  


The morning sun peeks through the curtains, basking the living room in warm sunlight. An English pop song blasts through the speakers, alcohol bottles scattered on the carpet like autumn leaves, and in the middle of the mess is Tobio and Aran swaying to the music. Their steps are a little messy, the song too upbeat for a slow dance, but they don’t care anyway. Atsumu smiles to himself as he watches Tobio step on Aran’s feet, the alcohol in his bloodstream making him dizzy.

“Ya should dance with Tobio,” Osamu says, suddenly sitting in the barstool beside him. 

Atsumu glances at him. “Are you drunk?”

Osamu narrows his eyes, the movement too slow for him to be sober. “Bitch,” he curses. “We’re all drunk here.”

“Fair point.” Atsumu finishes his fifth bottle of liquor. Drinking at ten o’clock in the morning may be slightly peculiar for some people but it’s something that the four of them have always done. Aran said  _ why should we conform to the norms of society?  _ like the self-proclaimed deviant person that he is and they decided to be drunk during the hours when the sun can watch them ever since.

The music changes to a smooth jazz. Atsumu stands up, a paper bag in one hand, and walks towards Aran and Tobio.

“My turn.”

Aran grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Of course,” he says while doing a curtsy bow. The three of them dissolves into laughter, and Atsumu thinks that he will never trade anything in the world for small moments like this.

“What’s that?” Tobio asks, pointing at the paper bag in Atsumu’s hand. 

“A graduation gift.” He hands it to Tobio, heart lodged in his throat for some unfathomable reason. “Congrats, Tobio-kun.”

The quiet smile in Tobio’s face when he accepts the gift grows into a big one when he opens it. The rare gesture strikes a softer chord in him; it’s not every time that Tobio smiles and he only lets three people see it. Atsumu considers himself lucky that he’s one of those people. 

“Atsumu,” he says, gratitude etched in three syllables. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Tobio lightly slaps his shoulder. “What do you mean don’t mention it! I’ve always wanted to get my hand on this!”

“Well, now you have it,” he mumbles, his mind clouded with alcohol and Tobio’s grateful smile.

“And it’s all because of you,” he says, face glowing with all that euphoria he seems to wear so well. “Thank you, really, this means everything to me.”

Atsumu’s breath hitches, just the slightest bit, but enough for him to know that he’s slowly losing control of himself. He regains his composure, then says, “Do you want to dance?”

Tobio nods his head and pulls Atsumu closer to him, gentle fingers guiding Atsumu’s hands to his waist and then he wraps his arms around Atsumu’s neck, the paper bag still in his hand. This close, Atsumu can smell the alcohol in Tobio’s breath and he wonders if it’s possible to get even more intoxicated without tasting another drop of liquor.

They dance to the tune of Utada Hikaru’s  _ First Love  _ , Tobio humming along to the song. Their bodies move in slow rhythm, the soft smiles in their faces too blithe for the despondent lyrics. If Atsumu’s mind was a little less hazy, he would feel the way his skin burns mute red from where Tobio is touching him.

“Have I ever told you how blessed I am to have you?” Tobio whispers, focusing on an empty space in the air between them.

Atsumu pauses. “A couple of times,” he says.

Tobio blinks for a few seconds and then to Atsumu’s surprise, he bursts into peals of laughter. His laugh fills the room, the instrumentals in the song, and the empty spaces in Atsumu’s heart. He laughs loudly, his eyes lost in delight, then— 

Atsumu kisses the laughter out of him. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the sudden overwhelming feeling in his chest. There is a loud gasp in the background, probably from Osamu. For a split second, he thought that Tobio’s laugh is the kind that would be melancholic not to kiss. But the white noise in his skull dies down when he feels Tobio freeze and suddenly all he can hear is  _ oh shit oh fuck i messed up tobio probably hates—  _

Tobio kisses him back before he can pull away. His whole body tenses ever so slightly before he melts completely into Tobio’s mouth. It’s sloppy, wet, a little messy, and when Tobio smiles into the kiss Atsumu can’t help but kiss him deeper.

He tastes Tobio’s smiles and laughter on his mouth, another question tiptoeing on his lips:  _ since when have I wanted this? _

  
  
  
  
  


**3.**

**[2016]**

_ There is a boy in the mirror of your bathroom. _

_ He is there every morning when you dress yourself for the world to see and every night when you say goodbye to their cruel eyes. The boy always looks at you with his brown eyes but he does not see you the way you see him. It’s as if he’s looking at you without ever really seeing you. _

_ You watch the boy as heat builds up in the pit of his stomach and you wonder why you can feel it too. It coils tightly and it engulfs you in flames, making you hungry for more. You wonder:  _ **_what is the hunger for?_ **

_ One night, when you’re all alone in the bathroom, you ask the boy in the mirror:  _ **_where does your body burn with desire?_ **

_ He answers you:  _ **_everywhere._ **

__

  
  
  


“How’s art school for you, my dearest maestro?”

Tobio drops on Atsumu’s bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. “Tiring,” he grumbles against the pillows.

Atsumu rolls closer to Tobio. “Really?”

“Hmm,” Tobio hums. “I can’t even keep up with the requirements.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No,” he says, his tired eyes staring at Atsumu. “But thank you.”

“Do you want curry? I cooked one a while ago.”

“Really?” Tobio asks as he props his elbow on the bed.

“Yup.”  _ I cooked it for you,  _ he doesn’t mention.

“Let’s eat it later.” Tobio falls back down on the covers. “I don’t want to move.”

“How about a hug?” Atsumu asks while wiggling his brows in an attempt to lighten up Tobio’s mood.

Tobio smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay.”

Atsumu snakes an arm around his middle, letting Tobio rest in the crook of his neck. He rubs a palm on Tobio’s back to ease the tension out of his shoulders, pressing on the soft skin from time to time, and when he’s hit a particularly good spot, Tobio lets out a soft moan.

Atsumu stops. He feels Tobio tense under his hand, his breathing hot and heavy on Atsumu’s neck. The silence is charged, as if it will light if Atsumu holds out his hand to touch it. 

Before the silence can be replaced by a string of awkward apologies, Atsumu lunges forward and takes Tobio’s mouth in his, pulling him closer and closer by his waist. Tobio sighs into the kiss, gentle fingers weaving through Atsumu’s hair. 

Tobio pulls away from the kiss. “Wait,” he murmurs into Atsumu’s mouth, his pupils dark and dilated, “are we doing this?”

Atsumu lets out a shaky breath, his heart erratic inside his chest. “If you want to.”

“Is this a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, forgetting all semblance of self-control. “It’s not a bad one.”

“But—”

“We already kissed anyway,” he says. “It’s a good stress reliever. Besides, it’s just a one time thing.”

Tobio cups Atsumu’s face with the palms of his hands, studying him intently. Atsumu can see the hundred questions running through his mind when he traces the outline of his lips with his fingers. Still, he leans closer and presses his soft mouth into Atsumu.

The kiss starts soft, a tender contact of the lips, then it becomes rougher on the edges as they grow hungrier for more. Atsumu bites the soft flesh of Tobio’s lip, the skin glistening with spit and moonlight. 

“Off,” Tobio says in between the kiss, tugging Atsumu’s shirt. “Take this off.”

Atsumu removes his shirt and Tobio follows shortly after. His head is heady with desire as he smooths his palm down Tobio’s arched spine, heat spreading from his stomach to his whole body. 

He doesn’t know who does it first, too lost in the intensity of the moment, but they both unraveled themselves down to their bare skin, leaving them a lot closer than ever. Atsumu sucks at the hollow behind Tobio’s ear, earning a shudder from him. He paints hickies on Tobio’s glistening skin—on his neck, on his back, on his thigh—and wonders if this is what it feels like when an artist loves their own art.

Atsumu takes Tobio apart in the busy hours of the night until he’s a moaning, writhing mess under him. His skin glistens with sweat like all the glossy paintings he has done and his hair sticks to his forehead like honey. Atsumu tastes it through the small kisses he left.

Tobio moans in his ear, repeats  _ fuck fuck fuck I’m so close fuck  _ like a mantra, eyes closed and skin flushed—all this only for Atsumu to see and hear. His pace becomes faster, a little desperate, Tobio mouthing  _ godyesyesyes  _ in indistinguishable syllables, and his vision turns white when the tension in his stomach finally unravels.

Atsumu plants a small kiss on Tobio’s mouth and lays beside him. He lets the ringing in his ears die down first before he glances at Tobio; his eyes are closed but he’s not asleep—the up and down movement of his chest too fast for him to be sleeping. 

There is a burning lump in his throat, one that he chooses to ignore because ignorance is bliss, and he does not want to know why there are needles prickling his chest as he watches Tobio fall into slumber. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ There are boundaries that once crossed, you can never go back. _

_ You first walked on it when you kissed him that one morning, playing around the edges and testing the water. You go back when your bare foot touches the cold because you’re scared of being swallowed by the ocean.  _

_ But you are only a simple man who cannot stop once he lets himself have a little taste. You grew hungrier for more—more than kisses, more than being friends.  _

_ So you dive head first into the ocean. You swim and swim and swim without ever looking back, relishing in the way the water kisses your skin. You only stop when you’re already in the deeper parts of the water. The water bites your skin and you look up at the sky for help, but it only turns its back at you. _

_ Now that you’re lost in the middle, where do you go from here? _

  
  
  
  
  


**4.**

**[2017]**

It’s not just a one time thing. 

  
  
  
  
  


Atsumu plays with the silver ribbon encircling the bouquet of irises he’s holding. Steering clear of the crowd, he watches a couple of students gather in front of a big glass box. Inside the box is an ocean suspended in air as if it’s the night sky; the stars and the moon holding its place on the ground. Every now and then, a thunder emerges from the sky at the bottom, casting a harsh glow on the water above.

“Hi,” a soft voice whispers against his ear, easily startling him. He turns around and sees Tobio hiding his laugh on his hand. Atsumu subconsciously reaches out for his hand and places it back down as if to say:  _ don’t hide your laugh.  _

“Why are you laughing, huh?” he asks, faking annoyance. Tobio only laughs harder.

“You should’ve seen your face!” he says, his voice a little breathless.

“Shut up.” 

“Anyway,” Tobio starts with a smile etched on his face, “fancy seeing you here.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “You have little faith in me. I told you I would come.”

“Well, I thought you’d miss it since you were sleeping like a rock when I left you earlier.”

“I wouldn’t miss your first exhibit for the world.”

The barest hint of a blush dusts Tobio’s cheeks. “You’re so cheesy.”

"I know,” he says. Then, because he wants to tease Tobio, he adds, “I know, baby.”

This time, pink reaches even the tip of his ears. “Don’t call me that!”

Atsumu lets out a quiet chuckle as he raises his hands in fake surrender. Tobio huffs but the softness in his eyes states it’s lighthearted. They lock eyes for a brief moment, only a quarter of a second. When Atsumu blinks, Tobio’s gaze is already on the bouquet in his hand.

“That—” 

“Yes, it’s for you,” Atsumu says before Tobio can ask his question. “Here.”

He hands the flowers to Tobio, his palms sweaty and cold, as if his best friend is not the one receiving the bouquet. 

“Congrats on your exhibit.”

Tobio’s lithe fingers trace the irises, and ever so slightly, just for a fleeting second, his blue eyes gleam under the warm lights. Atsumu could have missed it if he blinked. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes still on the flowers.

“Go back to your exhibit,” Atsumu says. “I’ll see you later.”

Tobio nods. “Have fun roaming around.” He smiles at Atsumu, then he turns around, walking away with the irises carefully tucked in his arms. 

  
  
  
  
  


**_household spirits_ **

付喪神

ACRYLIC ON WOOD

22 x 30 in

At the far end of the hall is Atsumu’s favorite artwork: a painting of different mundane objects with spirits, commonly known as  _ tsukumogami  _ in their folklore. He has heard countless stories about this  _ yōkai  _ before; his parents used to tell him that their  _ shōji  _ have eyes, so he better not attempt any cruel deeds. 

The painting is of Tobio’s childhood room, and it has no  _ shōji,  _ or  _ bakezōri,  _ or any traditional  _ tsukumogami;  _ instead, the scattered toys on the ground have different faces of trapped spirits. In the middle of it are four boys confined in their dreams. Atsumu does not know much about color schemes, but he thinks Tobio did an excellent job with the color selection: cold tones, delicate purple, pale blue. He always does. 

Perhaps the reason why Atsumu likes this painting the best is because the soft faces of the  _ yōkai  _ flood his senses with warmth. There is the feeling of nostalgia, but it’s drowned out by solace as the spirits assure him:  _ don’t worry, these boys will grow up beside each other. _

  
  
  
  
  


“Stop calling me baby.”

Atsumu peeks one eye open. He looks at Tobio through his drowsiness, tired from their previous ministrations. Tobio brushes a hand on his light fringe. “Everyone thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

Atsumu sleepily grins at him. “I could be.”

Tobio scrunches his nose, but he doesn’t stop stroking Atsumu’s hair. “Funny,” he plainly says.

_ Ah. But who said I’m joking? _

Atsumu pauses, contemplating for a moment. Then, “Hypothetically,” he starts, “let’s say I’m your boyfriend.”

The hand touching his hair stops. He opens both eyes to have a better look at Tobio’s reaction: furrowed brows, blank eyes, open mouth.

Before Tobio can say anything, Atsumu cuts the awkward air with a forced laugh. “I’m just kidding!” he bursts. “You don’t have to look so constipated.”

Tobio lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You almost got me there,” he says. “You’re my best friend.”

The words sound like a harsh melody, uncomfortably grating on his ear and chest. “Yeah,” he agrees, the single syllable bitter on his tongue. “A best friend who fucks you.”

Tobio throws a pillow at him, his face cherry red. “Don’t say that!”

Atsumu laughs at his reaction, the slight twinge of pain from a moment ago easily forgotten. “Why?” 

“Just don’t say it,” Tobio says, his chest heaving a little bit.

“Okay,” Atsumu says. “It’s true though.”

“Shut up!”

Atsumu grins but he doesn’t say anything after. He moves closer to Tobio just to trace the crescent shaped indents on his skin, and Tobio studies him with unwavering eyes. The silence stretches on for a while, then: “How long are we gonna do this?”

Atsumu spells out his name on Tobio’s chest, creating patterns out of the angry hickies. “I don’t know,” he answers. “You tell me.”

“Well,” Tobio begins. “I wouldn’t want it to end now.”

Atsumu says nothing, just raises his eyebrow in question as he repeats writing his name in kanji. 

“You’re good in bed.” This time, Atsumu tilts his head to give him a proper look. His hand lingers on Tobio’s body, unmoving.

“Is that all I am to you?” he jokes.

“Maybe,” Tobio says, a grin forming on his face. Atsumu rolls away from him in an attempt to act upset but Tobio catches him in a hug. “I’m kidding,” he says. “It’s just a hassle to look for other people, you know it.”

“Ugh,” Atsumu breathes out, his lips drawn in a pout. “You’re lucky I’m your best friend.”

Tobio kisses the pout off his lips. “I am very lucky,” he whispers against his mouth. “But you know, one day, you’ll find someone. Maybe a girl—”

“A boy.”

“A boy, sorry,” Tobio corrects himself, deep blue eyes locking with Atsumu. “You’ll find a boy and you’re gonna want to spend the rest of your life with him.”

“What if I already found him?”

Tobio stops. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says.  _ He’s right in front of me.  _

  
  
  
  
  


**5.**

**[2018]**

Atsumu is not in love with Tobio.

“But you want to hold his hand,” Osamu said over a bowl of shio ramen. Beside him, Aran nodded fervently.

“Shut up,” Atsumu scowled. “I am not in love with him.”

“Maybe you’re not. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re all over him,” Aran said, laying out the truth on their table without hesitation.

“What I said still stands. I am not in love with him.” If Atsumu repeats the phrase  _ I am not in love with him  _ numerous times, he thinks the words would start to make sense and not feel like sandpaper on his mouth.

“You want to wake up beside him every morning,” Osamu said, as if his statement explains everything. 

“I am not in love with—”

“But you want to be his person.”

Atsumu’s nose flared, annoyed at his twin for cutting him off. “I said, I am not in love—”

“Yet you want to spend the rest of your life with him,” Osamu deadpanned, the words seamlessly leaving his mouth. It felt like a bruising punch to Atsumu’s gut. Still, Atsumu shook his head, hoping that denial is enough to soothe the bruises. 

So,  _ no.  _ Tobio is not someone whom he is in love with. But he is a boy he loves. He is a boy he has known all his life. Which is why when Atsumu wakes up to the quiet sound of Tobio’s sniffles, every muscle in his body strains with worry.

“Hey,” Atsumu breathes out, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. Even so, Tobio tenses the moment he heard him speak. Atsumu counts up to five before he talks again, “Hey.”

Tobio doesn’t open his mouth to speak, but he turns around to hide himself in the crook of Atsumu’s neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Tobio shakes his head and presses himself closer to Atsumu. He’s not crying anymore, but Atsumu knows he’s far from feeling better. “You can cry about it, you know.” He presses a gentle kiss on top of Tobio’s forehead as his fingers card through his hair. “Let it out.” 

A choked sob escapes from his mouth, then another, until his whole body is trembling from the force of his cries. In the dead of the night, the sound bounces off the walls of the room. His hold on Atsumu’s waist tightens, engulfing him in a tight hug like it’s the only thing that grounds him to earth. Atsumu comforts him in silence.

“Sorry,” Tobio whispers in between sniffles. “Your neck is so wet now.”

Atsumu offers a reassuring smile even if Tobio can’t see it. “It’s okay,” he says with sincerity. Then, he asks, “Do you want a back massage?”

Tobio tilts his head to look at him, his face red and blotchy. Atsumu wipes the tear stains on his cheeks with the pad of this thumb. 

“Do you even know how to do it?” he asks, his voice hoarse from crying. 

“Of course,” Atsumu says. “I’m good with my hands. Especially with my fingers.”

“Shut up,” Tobio huffs but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face. Atsumu kisses him on the mouth, light and soft, and sits up to get essential oil from the bedside table.

“Turn around,” he says. Tobio turns around to lie on his stomach without a word. There’s a halo of moonlight on his black hair, making him look like the tennin they used to read about during middle school. If he were actually a celestial being, Atsumu hopes this fortress of pillows and blankets is enough veneration.

Atsumu uncaps the bottle of oil and pours it in the palm of his hand. He rubs his hands together to warm it, then begins to spread the oil on Tobio’s back, earning a sigh from him. He starts from the small of his lower back, easing the strain in his tailbone. Atsumu works his way upward, along the bites and marks, applying enough pressure without hurting him.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” Tobio drawls out. “You’re good at this.”

“I told you I’m good with my fingers,” Atsumu teases, causing him to receive a light slap on his arm. He continues to work his hands on Tobio’s back up to his neck, kneading and rubbing the soft skin until he feels the tension ebb away underneath his hands. 

“Feeling better?” he asks as he moves back under the covers. Tobio is now lying on his back, staring at the white ceiling with puffy eyes.

“A lot better,” he answers. “Thank you.”

“Am I that bad at sex for you to cry after?”

Tobio breathes out a laugh, loud enough for Atsumu to know that it’s genuine. Still, worry clings inside him like winter ice. “Your jokes are so lame,” he says as he looks at Atsumu. “It’s not that. I’m just really tired.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Atsumu tells him. He hears the words Tobio doesn’t say. It’s something that he has always done—listen to the pauses in the air and read between the lines—because Tobio isn’t the best with words, but it’s okay. Atsumu understands him. Atsumu can understand him. 

“Thank you.” Tobio’s gaze on him is unreadable, as if there’s a gray cloud hiding the blue sky in his eyes.

Atsumu doesn’t question it though. “Go to sleep,” he says instead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

  
  
  
  
  


**\+ 1.**

**[2019]**

The Totoro digital clock on Atsumu’s kitchen wall says it’s currently  **16:04.** Three things usually happen at this time of the day: he drinks tea, watches the rerun of his favorite show, and waits for Tobio to come home. It’s a routine he built when Tobio started college, and he has followed it ever since. 

Atsumu is seated on the couch,  _ ryokucha  _ in one hand, the television on mute as his least favorite scene flashes on the screen. He quietly drinks his tea; the muffled sound of the rain is his only companion. Any minute now and he will get a notification from Tobio, a quick text that says  _ I’m almost home.  _

He’s finished with his cup of tea when he receives the message. Atsumu hears the fumbling of keys, soft thud of the door closing, quiet footsteps on the hard floor—all of which are familiar to him—and when he looks up from where he is seated, Tobio's familiar face greets him.

"Rough day at uni?” he asks against Tobio’s mouth when he leans down to press a kiss on him.

“Not really.”

“Rate it from one to ten, ten meaning the roughest,” he says. This is another part of Atsumu’s daily routine; his day doesn’t end without him asking Tobio to rate his day.

“Three,” Tobio quietly answers. Atsumu looks at him and notices the fleck of blue paint on his choppy bangs. He reaches forward to pick it out, then he tucks the stray strands of hair on the side behind his ear.

“That’s good,” Atsumu says. They fall into comfortable silence, enveloped in nothing but their own breathing. He didn’t even notice that the rain already stopped. Atsumu studies Tobio, Tobio studies him back. His Kiyoshi Saito cat tattoo peeks from the collar of his shirt, and there’s a day old hickey lining the column of his throat. If Atsumu were an artist, he would draw this exact moment the same way Fushijima Takeji drew Sunrise over the Eastern Sea. 

Briefly, he wonders what Tobio sees when he looks at him. After all, he’s the artist between the two of them.

Tobio is the one who breaks the silence. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” he says. “What is it?”

“Can I paint on your back?”

Atsumu nods almost immediately. “What for?”

“I want to practice body paint,” Tobio answers as he opens his backpack and takes out the paint tubes. Atsumu recognizes the brand, Madisi Body Paint, because Tobio bought those with him.

“Give me a kiss first.”

Tobio stops arranging his art supplies on the coffee table. The barest hint of a smile graces his face as he plants a quick kiss on Atsumu’s mouth. “You’re so spoiled.”

“But you love me anyway,” he jokes. He’s expecting Tobio to roll his eyes, slap his arm, or scoff like he always does whenever Atsumu jokes around, but he only remains quiet as he puts paint on his palette.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

  
  
  
  


The paint brush feels rough on his back, but the way Tobio’s gentle hand presses the bristles to his skin makes him feel loved.

“I saw a plane today,” Tobio tells him. He has been painting for about an hour now, and every time Atsumu asks him what he is painting he just dodges the question. “An Airbus A350 to be exact.”

Atsumu turns around to look at Tobio with wide eyes. “Airbus A350?!” 

“Yeah,” Tobio grins. “You talked about it so much I could recognize it anywhere. I even dream about it sometimes.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s my favorite model so far.”

Atsumu feels the brush leave his back, his skin suddenly tingling from the loss of contact. “Don’t apologize. I love it when you talk about how the Airbus A350 has a tail camera so that passengers can watch the progress of the plane from takeoff to landing.”

Atsumu’s face splits into a smile. “You even remember that.”

“Of course I do. I pay close attention to whatever you say.”

If he listens closely, he can hear the sound of Tobio’s heart beating beyond the quiet stroke of the brush.

  
  
  
  
  


Later that night, Atsumu scrolls through his Instagram feed, Tobio sleeping soundly beside him, when he comes across his post on his art account. It's a photo of his back, the body paint on full display. 

Painted on Atsumu’s back is two boys standing on top of Takedajō-seki. Their faces are not shown, but Atsumu knows they’re both wearing the biggest smiles. The castle ruins look magnificent on Tobio’s art style—detailed lines, cool undertones, soft shading. Like this, the castle looks like it’s floating on the ocean instead on a sea of clouds.

At the bottom of the picture is a short and simple caption that says:  **since 2009.**

  
  
  
  


**6.**

**[2020]**

Osamu once told him,  _ you wear your heart out on your sleeve.  _ When he asked him about it, he shrugged and said,  _ you should see the way you talk about Tobio. _

But Atsumu thinks it’s not true—he doesn’t wear his heart out on his sleeve. He wears it on the calloused lines of his palms, on the pink tips of his fingers. He wears it on his hand so that every time he touches Tobio he leaves traces of his heart on his skin.

  
  
  
  
  


The apartment lingers with the scent of Tobio’s perfume. It’s been more or less five minutes since he went to the konbini a few blocks away from their apartment complex to buy snacks and drinks for their weekly movie session. In an endeavor to fill in time, Atsumu hums to the tune of iri’s  _ Wonderland  _ as he looks through the canvases laid out on the table.

There are a lot of airplane and sky artworks—some he commissioned and others Tobio gave to him as gifts. One particular piece gleams under the morning light, making the sunset come to life. Still, the brown sketchbook catches Atsumu’s attention the most. He gently picks it up from the table and reads the text on the cover: random.

Atsumu smiles to himself. Trust Tobio to be straightforward as always. He wants to see what’s inside the sketchbook but he doesn’t want to pry either so he places it back down on the table, gentler now, but a few yellowed pages fall to the floor, almost as if begging to be seen. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath. From his viewpoint, the endless warm wash of the sun’s morning glow hides the pencil sketches on the papers. It’s only when he bends down to get it that he sees what’s drawn. There’s a skip in his heartbeat, almost as long as his name, when he finally notices the drawings. A skip— _ Atsumu  _ —then another and another until he feels like he’s out of breath trying to match the pace of his heart.

He is on all the papers—awake, sleeping, teary-eyed from a ghibli movie, that one time when they baked cookies at midnight. Atsumu is all over the yellowed pages. Still, his head swims with emotions he cannot name not because of the sketches, but because of the little note at the bottom.  _ I’m not good at understanding people. But you. I can always understand you. Sometimes I don’t even have to try. _

_ Atsumu.  _

Tobio’s voice comes out of nowhere—all sweet and soft and lovely—as if he’s only right behind him. Atsumu drops the papers and hurriedly fishes his phone out from his pocket with shaking hands.

“Hello?” 

“‘Samu,” he breathes out, his voice quiet and shaky. Atsumu wills himself to calm down. This is Osamu. 

“Is something wrong?” The worry in his voice breaks through the static of the phone.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. “But, I dunno, I found something. Something I think I shouldn’t have.”

“What is it?”

“It’s—there’s a sketchbook. Tobio’s sketchbook. And—and I saw sketches.”

“That’s what a sketchbook is for,” Osamu says, confusion laced in his voice.

Atsumu huffs out a laugh, or tries to, but it sounds more like a dry cough. “It’s just. Sketches. Sketches of me drawn by Tobio. He—he drew me.”

“What’s surprising about that? You’ve always been his muse.”

A light bulb moment. A falling apple. The iconic Eureka _ .  _ Atsumu wonders if this is the same feeling as when Isaac Newton got hit by that small piece of fruit on the head, or when Archimedes stepped into a bath and noticed the water level rose. 

Tobio had kissed the inside of his wrist before leaving, and Atsumu feels it pulsing alongside the drumming of his heart.

“I’ll call you later.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Tobio!”

Tobio, currently on queue for the cash register, immediately whips his head around. He greets Atsumu with furrowed brows. “Why are you screaming?”

Atsumu, who had fled down the stairs like an idiot instead of taking the elevator, raises his hand from where he is crouched on his knees. “Wait,” he says as he tries to catch his breath. 

A few seconds pass by in a blur of heavy breaths and scanner beeps. Atsumu removes his gaze on the tiled floor and stands up to look at Tobio whose face is a mix of worry and confusion. “Tobio,” he begins, “will you marry me?” 

He hears a sharp inhale, halting of footsteps, and he thinks someone dropped a bag of chips somewhere, but his attention remains fixed on the man he just proposed to. It must have been a strange sight, he muses, to see someone face-flushed and covered in sweat asking for someone’s hand in marriage without a ring. 

Tobio opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. Atsumu was about to brush it off as a joke, even though it’s probably too late now, when Tobio whispers, “What?”

“Um—remember when I told you that I’m going to find a boy, and—and I’ll want to marry him.” 

Tobio furrows his brows yet again, but still nods his head in response. “What about it?”

“I said I already found him.” 

Tobio reverts back to his blank face—a veil he perfected through the years—yet it will never work on Atsumu no matter what. He can still see the gears in his head turning as he figures the whole situation out.

Atsumu remains rooted on the spot as he waits for Tobio to say something. His feet and legs won’t move, won’t let him walk towards the person he knows the most. Out of fear, maybe. Fear that one impulsive decision will ruin the fortress they built for almost two decades.  _ What if I read it all wrong? What if— _

Despite the chaos in his head, he still hears Tobio’s quiet, “Is it me?”

Those three words were all Atsumu needed to move from where he was standing, and now he’s in front of Tobio. He’s aware that there are eyes on them, but there will always be eyes everywhere. He just has to look at the eyes that matter, and right now, as it has always been, it’s the ones that knew him since he was a child. 

Atsumu shakily brings his hands up to cup Tobio’s face, his thumbs tracing soft circles on his warm skin. Just like when they were younger. “Yeah,” he breathes out.

“I—we’re not even—we’re not even together yet,” Tobio mumbles as the flickering lights of the convenience store plays on his eyes. 

Atsumu’s mouth lifts at the side, just shy of a smile. His heart is still pounding against his ribcage, but it’s no longer out of nervousness. Truthfully, he doesn’t mind. It’s a tangible reminder that this moment is real—that he’s not dreaming and he’s awake to experience all of this.

“Never thought about that,” Atsumu says, amusement clear in his voice. “Will you be my boyfriend then?”

He doesn’t know what reaction he expected to get out of Tobio, but it’s certainly not flushed cheeks that are warm to touch. “I hate you,” Tobio says before swatting Atsumu’s hands away from his face and dumping the content of his shopping basket on the counter.

“Is that a yes?” 

“Shut up,” Tobio whispers while still avoiding his eyes. He pays for their stuff and quietly thanks the cashier, then proceeds to leave with a single plastic bag on his hand without waiting for Atsumu. He knows Atsumu will follow him anyway. When Tobio reaches the sliding door, he stops for a moment or two, as if contemplating on something. Then, he tilts his head to look at Atsumu from his peripheral view and says, “Sure.”

He turns around to walk away after that. The back of his ears are still red, and Atsumu grins to himself as he jogs after him. He reaches Tobio before they turn around the corner of the street; they walk quietly side by side, their shoulders touching, and every so often, Tobio’s hand brushing against his.

Atsumu stops when he sees the famous open-mouthed Mona Lisa. “Tobio,” he says, pointing a finger at the flagship store. “Wanna go inside?”

Tobio’s whole face brightens when he recognizes the familiar entrance of Sekaido. He nods, and Atsumu clasps their hands together as he leads him inside the store. They browse the aisles together, with Atsumu throwing jokes once in a while and Tobio lightly punching him on the arm, when a question pops on Atsumu’s head. 

“Wait,” Atsumu interjects. “Does this count as our first official date as boyfriends?”

That earns another punch from Tobio, a little harder this time, but there’s a genuine smile plastered on his face. Atsumu kisses him, just a quick touch of the lips, but he tasted the sweetness of Tobio’s smile all the same.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

**Author's Note:**

> 5+1 = 6 omg math major things /j
> 
> thank u to aej n ruth for proofreading and listening to my countless rants about this 
> 
> this has been sitting in my drafts for like... a whole semester... because i couldn't finish it help anyway im glad its finally out !! thank u for reading <3
> 
> [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/atsukages)


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